


He Lives

by BeyondStarlight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, M/M, Severus Snape Lives, i live and breathe angst and i hope you know it, mention of suicide, what you thought just because he lives this was gonna be some sort of a happy story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-24 02:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16631516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeyondStarlight/pseuds/BeyondStarlight
Summary: Severus Snape lives. Unfortunately.





	1. He Lives

He lives.

He’s not aware of it yet. He’s barely aware of anything. He tries, sees, there is a ceiling above his head. No sky. Must be inside. Cold old wood beneath his fingertips. Sticky. Red. Blood? He can’t feel his legs. Heavy. Tired. He can’t feel- he can’t  _move_ his legs. Panic. White hot fear. The pang doesn’t last long. It leaves behind a hollowness. He can’t move his legs. He can’t move his arms. He can’t move. Fingertips grasping at nothing. Nails dragging softly across the floor. His tongue licking his lips. Dry mouth.

What happened?

Potter. No. Before that. The dark lord. Red eyes. Sorry. He said sorry. What did he say sorry for? Did he say it? The wand. The elder wand. Dumbledore’s wand. Must kill Snape - yes, that’s what happened. The snake. Floating. Long and gleaming and curling around thin air. Sharp pain. His neck.

His neck.

He doesn’t feel anything. His fingers are cold and numb. They move slower. Barely brushing over the floor now. Where is he? There is a ceiling. Must be inside. He closes his eyes. So tired.

It takes a while before he realises death isn’t going to come for him. And then another while to realise no one else is either. It is so quiet in here.

He does not remember falling asleep.

.

.

.

He does not remember waking up.

He feels as though he has been here forever. In this chair. His head held by numerous pillows that smell as if they were just brought down from some musty attic. He thinks he must have been watching through this window forever. There’s a brick wall behind it. Some moss. It’s raining. The room itself is familiar. Small. Cramped. A narrow bed and a nightstand and the armchair he’s in and maybe just enough space for someone to stand. He doesn’t know where he is but he knows he has been here for a long time.

Someone enters the room. Potter. Who else could it be.

No- He should be surprised. Why isn’t he surprised? Why is Potter here? Why is he dressed in what look like pyjamas? Why is he balancing a tray of breakfast foods and tea and books? That they are all precariously stacked onto one another goes without saying.

“Good morning,” the boy mutters, half to himself.

“Morning.”

A cup of tea hits the floor first, quickly followed by bacon and eggs and toast. Books, cutlery and a second plate with a slice of cake are not far behind. Potter makes a pathetic attempt at saving the second cup of tea. Need it be said he fails?

Severus wants to say something – something nasty, he won’t deny it – but his voice came out so raspy that he is already relieved that potter’s cacophony drew the attention away from it. His throat feels hot and sore.

Potter looks up. his hair is somewhat longer and wilder than it should be. His eyes wide. Green. They have not changed. For a while it is just that. Just them. Severus remembers, faintly, the last time he looked into those green eyes. He wonders whether it really happened, or whether it was just a trick of his not-quite-dying brain.

“Did you just say ‘morning’ or am I actually going mad?”

“The two are not mutually exclusive.”

Potter snorts. Shakes his head. He begins reaching for the books. Freezes. Stares at Severus. Shakes his head again. Picks up shards of glass with his bare hands. It wouldn’t surprise Severus if the boy is truly losing his mind.

“Snape?”

“What.”

Hurts. He swallows. His muscles push and pull as though they have forgotten how to work. 

“Bloody hell.”

“I’m not exactly thrilled to see you either.”

“You’ve been quiet for four years, you know that?”

 _Been quiet_. What does that even mean?

“I’ve had worse.”

Severus glances at the narrow bed. The window that doesn’t close well - he doesn’t remember anyone using it, or telling him. He doesn’t know how he knows it, or why, but he knows it. It’s a nasty feeling. The sound of rattling shards fills the room.

He tries to read the book titles.  _Keeping Them Home: Advanced Hygiene For Your Paralysed Family Member._  He flushes, suddenly angry. Potter picks up the book without blinking. As if it’s normal. He begins muttering, almost as if he’s talking to himself, just in case Severus is back to  _being quiet_.

“You were just there.” He picks up the shards, walks out of the room. His footsteps don’t carry far. The sound of glass clattering into a bin. “Sitting in that damn chair.” He is back, oblivious to Severus’ hands, clamped tightly around the armrests. At least there’s that. He can have his hands. His head. Is that it? Is there anything else he can have? “Or lying in the bed.”

“Why bother.”

It comes out sharper than expected. Good. He swallows convulsively. It hurts more. Good. Potter quirks an eyebrow. Severus huffs, managing something of a sneer.

“You thought I was going to thank you?”

“What?” Potter snaps. “No! I- I just-”

“Oh, praise you, Potter! You’ve saved my life! I am forever in debt to you!”

“Shut up!” He shouts. Severus’ ears are ringing. The room is too small, and it seems to shrink even more as it is filled with his voice. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

“Don’t speak to me like that.”

“You’re such a-” he pauses, lets out a hard breath. His eyes are boring into the wall.

“I am such a what, Potter?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Shakes his head. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” he says to the wall. Severus’ eyes wander over the other books.

 _Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë. The Name of The Rose by Umberto Eco._   _Gone With The Wind by Margaret Mitchell._  There are book marks sticking out of all of them. The anger seeps out of Severus, as though he is bleeding out again. It leaves him deflated and tired. Potter catches him staring at the books.

“Do you remember me reading to you?”

Yes.

“No.”

Neither of them move. Although Severus is beginning to realise that he should not expect much more from himself. Hands. Head. Can he raise his arms? He is so tired. Potter doesn’t move. Severus is as he is. Still.

“You were just there,” Potter says, again. His voice is soft, barely louder than a whisper. “You never said a word. Just stared ahead of you. For four years. I almost missed hearing you yelling at me.”

Severus remembers his voice. Shrill. Loud. Shouting. S _ay something you ugly git._  Begging _. They’re going to put you down if you don’t open your fucking mouth_. 

Four years. it doesn’t quite sound true. Potter could tell him anything now and he’d have to take his word for it. Or not. It doesn’t matter. He is too tired to care.

“Four years?”

“Yeah.”

“I assume he is dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Who else?”

“Remus. Tonks. Fred.” He pauses. “Bellatrix. Crabbe or Goyle’s dad. I don’t remember which one.”

“What is left of Hogwarts?”

“Enough.”

“And what have you made of the past four years, other than keeping a dead man in your house?”

Potter’s face goes very white for a moment. Then he lets out a breath of relief. “Oh, you mean you.”

“What other dead man are you keeping?”

Please let this be a joke. A misunderstanding. Anything.

He raises his hands defensively. “No, it’s not- I’m not-”

“You’ll need to slit my throat before you’ll get away with lying to my face.”

Potter stand up suddenly. He towers over Severus. Inexplicably, he thinks of his father. He wishes he could turn away. Protect himself. Throw something at that damnable face so those green eyes don’t bore into him anymore. He can’t. He is completely at the mercy of this insolent little brat. He’ll be lucky if there is enough left of his neck that he can at least turn his head a little. Pathetic.

“I saved your life, you- you- bastard!”

“Four years, Potter.” His voice doesn’t carry much strength. His throat burns. The words taste like blood. “If you tolerated silence so well you would have put me down much earlier.”

“I have a feeling I’m going to regret not doing that.”

“It’s not too late yet. I can’t run. It’ll be easy.”

“Don’t be morbid.”

“Not like anyone will notice me missing.”

He says it derisively, but he regrets it still. It almost sounds as if he wants to be missed. What and utterly ridiculous insinuation.

“Actually, someone will notice.”

“And who is that?”

“The other dead man.”


	2. The Other Dead Man

“The other dead man.”

“Beg your pardon?”

Harry lets out a breathy laugh. It can’t be too bad if he laughs, can it? What a ridiculous statement. It absolutely can. Potter has been talking to himself, living in some god-forgotten shack, where he keeps at least one man who, on all accounts, should have died four years ago. A murderer, nonetheless.

And there’s supposedly another “dead man”.

Potter sits down on the bed, where he always sits. It is as though the last puzzle piece clicks into place. The narrow window. The small bed. The brick wall. And Potter, sitting where he always sits.

_Potter clears his throat, bent over the book. His posture is going to ruin his back. Not that he ever seemed to care one bit for himself. His voice had been filling the room for a while now. Steadily, rhythmically, like sea waves gently crashing into the shore, echoing off of the walls of Severus’ skull._

_He reads:_

_“No sight so sad as that of a naughty child,“ he began, "especially a naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?”_  
“They go to hell,” was my ready and orthodox answer.  
“And what is hell? Can you tell me that?”  
“A pit full of fire.”  
“And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?”  
“No, sir.”  
“What must you do to avoid it?”  
I deliberated a moment: my answer, when it did come was objectionable: “I must keep in good health and not die.”

_Potter suddenly stops. There is a moment of silence, brief, but very present amid the sea of words. Then he throws his head back and laughs._

Severus remembers, with painful clearness, how young he suddenly looked. How alien it was too see. As if Severus wasn’t meant to be there – as if he had sneaked up on the boy and caught him in an act that was never meant to be seen by someone as foul as Severus. It was the sort of genuine laughter that had gradually become inappropriate as the Dark Lord made his return. Something you ought to be ashamed of if you were still capable of doing it.

“He should be home any minute now.”

The present comes rushing back. The Dark Lord is no more. There are other matters at hand. Probably. He doesn’t how. It’s been four years.

“And this man… ?”

His voice falters on the last word, and all he manages to do is mouth it. His throat clenches together painfully. He tries to swallow – there ought to be a way to make that less painful. And his mouth is dry. He could really use some water. Not that he’d ask Potter. He’d sooner die of dehydration.

Speaking of Potter, the latter scratches the back of his head and shrugs. Helpful, that.

“After the whole thing with Voldemort-”

“Eloquent as ever.”

Potter rolls his eyes. Brat.

“After the battle of Hogwarts-”

“The what? Battle of- Never mind. Continue.”

His voice grows hoarser with every word. Not that this stops him. He finds it almost fitting – that every word he says hurts him. It should make him more careful, make him weigh every word against the damage it will do. It should. It doesn’t. He supposes they’ll have to rip out his throat before he ever stops saying nasty and hurtful things.

Potter stares at his shoes, takes a deep breath, then looks him in the eyes. “The Ministry started rounding up Death Eaters. No trials. If you were caught you were killed. It was supposed to be just Aurors, but then Yaxley was hung in Cotswolds. By regular witches and wizards. And then there was you, which made things-”

“This is not about me. The other dead-”

Somewhere, a door swings open.

“Home.”

Severus’ holds his breath. Can’t be. No. It’s just his mind playing tricks. He lets out a shaky breath.  _Get a grip_. Potter stares through the opened door, grinning broadly. Foolishly. Like there’s something to be ridiculously happy about.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he yells towards the rest of the house. Mustn’t be large. Severus can hear the footsteps clearly. One story below them. How come he has no memory of that? Has he spent four years in this cramped up little room? Has he not even seen the bathroom?

_Keeping Them Home: Advanced Hygiene For Your Paralysed Family Member._

Perhaps cleaning charms were enough. He thinks he should feel relieved, but he feels disgusted- no, he feels disgusting. He doesn’t want to see anyone anymore. He doesn’t care about the damned other man. When was the last time he ever took a bath? Did Potter just watch him piss himself? Flicking his wand at him to deal with them mess. Did he pity him? Did time wear away the embarrassment, until he was just annoyed with him? With his  _being quiet_?

“Did you chuck an entire plate of bacon and eggs in the- Potter, did you fucking break my china.”

It’s him. It’s him. He’s certain now. He wishes he wasn’t. His chest feels so tight. His heart is racing. It’s him. He lives. Severus curls his fingers around the armrest. If only he could stand up. If only he could- no. Doesn’t matter. Not now. He wants to see him. No- he doesn’t. Yes. Yes he does.

“Are you coming to see that surprise or are you going to continue bawling over two teacups?”

“That depends, is the surprise a new set of china?”

The end of the sentence becomes louder, clearer. Severus holds his breath. Can’t be. But it is. It’s him and he’s real and he’s standing right in front of him.  _Draco_.

“What? Why are you in here?”

He’s not looking at Severus. Leaning against the doorframe. Arms folded over his chest. Disrespectful little- ah, Severus can’t pretend to be angry. He feels relieved and terrified at the same time. Four years.

“Snape’s awake.”

“Alright. Want me to bathe him or what?”

His nails dig into the armrest. He can’t breathe. As if he’s been punched in the gut. Potter rolls his eyes. Like it’s a normal question. But it is, isn’t it? To them. They’ve talked about this before. This is how they talk about him.

“No, I mean he’s actually awake. Aware. Talking. Not just not sleeping.” Potter turns to Severus, who wishes for nothing more but to go back to  _being quiet_. “Come on, say something.”

Draco still doesn’t look at him. He opens his mouth, changes his mind, and then just sighs. He steps back out of the room. “Not this again, Potter.”

“No, I’m serious. I had a conversation with him. Full sentences. We had a fight. Sort of. Not really a fight- but- oh you know Snape.”

There a long, weighed silence.

Draco does not return. His voice comes from some other room. “I don’t hear anything.”

Potter turns to Severus. “Say something!”

Severus opens his mouth. Closes it again. Swallows. Winces. What can he say? What do you say to someone who thinks you’re alive but dead? He just wants to see him again. Make sure he is alright. Four years. What happened to him?

“Draco?”

_Please?_  He almost says it. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for- begging for. His mouth is dry. Tastes of blood. Sticky. A glass of water- not that he’d ask.

The silence lasts. Potter stares out of the door opening, at something Severus can’t see. The smile is long gone, as if it had never been there in the first place. He looks old. It’s been four years for him too. How old is he? How long ago was the memory of his laughter? He looked just like a child.

Potter’s shoulders slump. He looks inexplicably sad. Why is he sad? Severus wishes desperately he could see what Potter sees. If only he could stand up.

Potter doesn’t look at him, but gestures vaguely in Severus’ direction and says, “I’ll be right back.”

He closes the door behind him.

Damn them all.

There is no clock in this room. Severus sits. Waits. On the stand next to him is a glass. There’s maybe half an inch of water left in it. His tries raising his finger. His hand. His arm. Closer. Very slowly. Shakily. Touches it. Hot fingers curling around the cool glass. Yes. Closer. Slowly. And up. Yes. No- fuck. The glass falls onto the carpeted floor. It doesn’t even make a sound. He clenches his hands together into weak fists. Maybe he has just enough strength left in his arm to slit his wrists. Though he supposes dehydration will make do.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and you would like another chapter, please leave a comment. Your feedback is my fuel to write.


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